


Bittersweet Nothings

by UbiquitousMixie



Category: Weeds
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:12:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UbiquitousMixie/pseuds/UbiquitousMixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It dawns on Celia then, like a giant fucking neon sign. She’s Nancy’s bitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bittersweet Nothings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imustgofirst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imustgofirst/gifts).



> Set after episode 4x05. I’m obsessed with this pairing and completely dismayed by the lack of fic about them. So, I decided to give it a shot and write some. I hope I managed to stay in character. Let me know what you think! Comments fill me with joy and motivation. Enjoy!

Blinking up at the dark ceiling, Celia takes a deep breath—

\--and regrets it immediately. 

She’s not sure how Nancy can stand the stink of this bedroom, which reeks of stale weed (thanks to Andy and Doug, getting high on the back stoop directly beneath her window) and of old people, which leads Celia to wonder when Febreze began manufacturing a line of geriatric-scented sprays. Gardenia Geezer? Papa Patchouli? Orchid Octogenarian? 

She could cry. 

Worse than the smell is the couch itself, which is so fucking lumpy and uncomfortable that Celia would almost prefer to sleep on the floor. _Almost._ She supposes that she should be grateful to have a bed at all rather than a shallow grave in a ditch somewhere—she can still taste the cold metal of the gun in her mouth, mixed with the tang of blood from her missing tooth. She tongues the empty space between her teeth and she sulks; those teeth cost her (well, Dean) a pretty penny. She’ll be lucky to pass as Hobo Chic. 

No—Celia shouldn’t be feeling sorry for herself right now, not when she’s lucky to be alive. 

_Un_ lucky to be alive is more like it. 

Celia rolls her eyes at herself, disgusted with her own maudlin thoughts. What is she doing here, lying on this awful, piece of shit sofa in a hole like Ren Mar? She’s out of prison (where she didn’t belong to begin with), she’s near the beach (which she hates, thanks to all of the tan, skinny bitches in their string bikinis), and she’s alive (she would have been alive and well in Agrestic, living her humdrum, suburban life). 

This shit storm that has become her life was stirred up by Nancy Botwin. It’s all her fault. None of this ever would have happened if Nancy hadn’t made Celia fall in--

Bitch. Cunt. Whore. 

Celia’s eyes have adjusted to the dark, and she looks over at the whore, who is sleeping soundly on her bed. Celia hopes the bed smells as badly as the couch does, perhaps with the added stench of geriatric piss and moth balls. Nancy fucking deserves it— _she_ should be the one groveling for forgiveness and pity and a tiny bit of goddamn kindness.

Only Celia has already forgiven Nancy, which is part of the problem. 

She huffs and realizes that her face is wet, which is strange, considering the fact that she’s not crying. She wipes her cheeks on her sleeve and sniffles pathetically. 

“You’re fucking pathetic, you know that?” announces Nancy, mirroring Celia’s thoughts. The petite brunette has rolled onto her back, and she whips back the corner of the blanket with a sigh. “Get in.” 

Celia eyes the coveted empty spot on the bed warily; it would be really nice to be held for a while, but she’s not sure if she trusts Nancy not to smother her with a pillow while she’s sleeping. Celia’s proud of her resolve—she lasts a full ten seconds before she climbs into the bed. 

In another life, Celia and Nancy would already be fucking each other with a desperate sort of need that still makes the blonde wet to think about. It’s crazy that she still wants her; years of casual (or not so casual, in Celia’s case) sex have not dimmed Celia’s interest. Now, while they lie side by side in bed, both staring up at the ceiling, Celia wonders if it would cross some sort of line to have sex with the same person who earlier had a gun in her mouth. 

And, to her complete and utter lack of surprise, Nancy’s bed smells like fucking roses and Herbal Essences. There’s also a hint of spice and vanilla, which Celia knows is just Nancy’s natural scent. It’s not fair. It’s completely, totally, unfuckingfair, and—

Nancy shifts and the bed creaks (there’s that, at least), and then she’s straddling Celia. Her frizzy brown hair curtains her face, and the only thing Celia can see is the glint of the other woman’s eyes. “I don’t understand how you continually manage to screw up my life at the worst possible moments,” Nancy says as she grabs the blonde’s wrist and pulls it between her legs. “Every damn time, Celia.” She guides Celia’s hand into her pants and encourages her to stroke—she’s not wearing panties, that whore. “You’re like herpes.” 

She’s not sure if it’s fear or arousal that motivates the blonde’s fingers to move in that familiar rhythm, but she does it. She knows exactly how this is going to go. Nancy is a taker. She takes, takes, takes _everything_ like she’s entitled to it somehow, like she deserves it. Celia had always passively considered herself to be a taker—until Nancy, anyway. There’s not a lot of room for two takers in any kind of relationship, whether it be romantic or platonic or purely sexual. 

It dawns on Celia then, like a giant fucking neon sign. She’s Nancy’s bitch. Nancy took, and Celia let her have it. She willingly gave it all. The realization feels like ice in Celia’s veins, prickling unpleasantly at her skin. It infuriates her. 

With a rough thrust of her fingers, Celia is inside her. Her nails are on the longish side and it probably hurts, but Celia doesn’t give a shit. Neither does Nancy, if the little grunts in the back of her throat are any indication. 

“Why won’t you just get the fuck out of my life?” Nancy pleads, rolling her hips against Celia’s hand. She’s wet and swollen—she gets off on this, on this infusion of power. It’s both compelling and terrifying; it’s at times like these that Celia wonders if she ever _really_ knew the real Nancy at all. “I want you out of my life.” 

These bittersweet nothings piss her off even more—recent events notwithstanding, Celia does have _some_ dignity and self-respect. She has half a mind to pull out and shove the bitch off of her body, but something keeps her going—the same thing that always keeps her going. 

These goddamn, motherfucking, ridiculous _feelings_ for Nancy are going to kill her one day. 

Literally. 

Nancy reaches an arm down between their bodies, bumping Celia’s as she begins to touch her in return. It’s an awkward position, but Celia is so grateful to be touched that she cannot stop herself from crying out a surprised, “Oh!” It’s been so long since she’s been touched with such tenderness that her eyes well up with tears. She’s being a pussy but she can’t help it—thank god it’s too dark for Nancy to see. 

“This is it, Celia,” Nancy says, bearing her hips down on Celia’s fingers. Celia’s wrist is beginning to cramp. “This is over. Stop f-fucking with my…” A gasp. “Life.” 

When Nancy comes, Celia strains her eyes to see, to watch the woman writhe and sigh and shake with pleasure. Mrs. Botwin can say what she wants, but Celia knows that there are things she can do for her that no one else can do. She may hate Celia, but she gets off on it. 

Nancy, to Celia’s great relief, does not stop touching her. She’s a cunt, but she’s not evil. Not _that_ evil, anyway. She may put a gun in her mouth or a knife to her throat and threaten to kill her, but she’d never leave her on the edge—especially if she’s serious about it being the last time. 

Well, she might. Nancy Botwin _is_ fucking crazy. 

Celia sighs. It’s good. It’s so good and it’s been so long. It’s better than vodka—well, it would be better _with_ vodka, if she’s being honest, but she doesn’t have that option, and she can’t be greedy. She closes her eyes, not wanting to ruin the moment by witnessing whatever expression might be plastered to the brunette’s face—disgust, hate, pity--she doesn’t want to know, and so she pretends that it’s years ago and they’re still in Agrestic and they still like each other and…

Celia presses her lips together to hold back a yowl when her orgasm hits, piercing her like knives all over her body. The pleasure bleeds out of her, draining her until she has nothing left for Nancy to take. She slumps back onto the mattress, exhausted. 

“Get out of my bed.” 

Celia rolls her eyes, unsurprised. Of course she’s being banished back to the couch—Nancy would rather die than be sentimental. 

“Admit it—you missed me.” 

Nancy gives an incredulous laugh. “Out.” 

Celia does as she’s told (Nancy probably sleeps with a gun under her pillow), grateful that she’s at least tired enough to fall into what will likely be a fitful sleep. She can feel Nancy’s eyes on her as she goes and she smirks. 

This won’t be the last time. Nancy’s not just a taker: she’s a _greedy_ taker. She may hate Celia, but she’ll never give up her inherent need to take whatever the fuck she wants. 

She arranges herself on the sofa, her body pleasantly relaxed. Celia Hodes is a taker too, and she’ll be damned if she won’t take everything she can from the woman who ruined her life by making her fall in love. 

\---


End file.
